


Diamond City Depravity: Darcy

by masseylass



Series: Diamond City Depravity [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, F/M, Grinding, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Sex on Furniture, Shameless Smut, Smut, Urination, Vaginal Fingering, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 15:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masseylass/pseuds/masseylass
Summary: Darcy Pembroke has been a wreck ever since her husband, Paul, died. One rainy night, she finds herself at Home Plate through no accident of her own. (Happy Kinktober you lunatics.)





	Diamond City Depravity: Darcy

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Kinktober! This Nate is straight. If you're into gay Nate, please check out my other works.

Diamond City was broken. “Weathered,” Valentine would insist, obviously finding some sort of melancholy charm about the place, like when people found beauty in storms or graveyards. I didn’t see it though. All I saw was a broken wall, a broken security force, and people broken by fear. Be that as it may, the most broken piece of Diamond City was something else, or rather someone: Darcy Pembroke. 

Darcy had dug her own grave by cheating around on her husband, Paul, with the owner of the Colonial Taphouse, Henry Cooke. Paul found out and confronted Cooke, and Cooke capped Paul behind Darcy’s back. Darcy came to me and Valentine, asking us to investigate her husband’s disappearance. Cooke wasn’t hard to persuade; he came clean pretty quick, and I broke the unfortunate news to Darcy. 

Months passed. Each time I scratched an item off of my quest log and returned to the Great Green Jewel, I would find Darcy slumped over somewhere with a hazy look in her eyes. It only got worse. Her pressed slacks and blouses were always wrinkled; she quit seeing John at the salon and let her tangled, blonde hair do whatever it pleased; she stopped putting her face on, and every time I saw her, she looked worse than before.

Part of me felt bad for her. After all, she was a single mother, a widow. But another part of me resented her. We didn’t speak often, but when we did, she confided in me. “I miss Paul,” she would say. No kidding, Darcy. I mean, sure, the guy had the personality of nails on a chalkboard, but he was willing to confront a guy twice his size to defend his family. Darcy chose a quick lay over her loyal husband. She could deal with the consequences. 

Well, she did deal, and she was dealing poorly. She stopped going to Taphouse altogether, no longer able to look at Cooke. Sometimes, I would see her idly standing around the market or staring at the ramp to the Stands as though she were contemplating going back. She never did, though. 

But Darcy Pembroke wasn’t my problem. Keeping the Institute from single-handedly destroying the Commonwealth was, so I focused on that.

I returned to Home Plate one quiet, October night after a week-long expedition to Natick. It was all very dramatic: gunners, super mutants, even a mirelurk queen. I was exhausted, and my clothes looked like Swiss cheese. It was time to clean up.

I took a bath, swearing I’d get around to shaving the week’s worth of stubble off my face when I realized that I’d been living in Diamond City for almost a year. After all, it was October 23rd when I crawled out of that God-forsaken vault, wasn’t it? Strange. It felt like everything before the bombs was a dream. Shaun. Nora. My house in Sanctuary. My Corvega. Everything. 

A knock came from the door. Ah, hell, I thought, and pulled myself out of the tub with a groan. 

Had to be Valentine. Ordinarily I would have taken the old synth with me, but another case demanded his attention. I figured he’d catch up with me once I got back to town; he’d come over where we’d share a smoke and dish about our respective goings-on. But when I answered the door in my pyjama pants and t-shirt, I was surprised to find a person of the feminine persuasion planted at my door. She shifted her head out of the shadows and the light of the noodle stand illuminated her face.

“Darcy?” Was she wearing makeup again?

“Hello, detective,” she drawled. Sure, Valentine and I were partners at the agency, but it still felt strange when other people referred to me as detective. I mean, Nick’s entire personality was extracted from the brain of a cop. I was just some guy with a rifle.

“It’s Nate,” I corrected, perhaps a little harsher than intended.

“Whatever. It’s raining. Are you going to let a lady inside?”

I poked my head out the door. Sure enough, a light rain had started to drizzle down on the city. Sometimes when it rained, I could start to grasp what Valentine was talking about. There was something about the smoke from the stacks of the noodle shop rising into the chilly, wet air; the rain gutters leaking onto corrugated walls; the smell of wet earth and hot food that came together to create a peaceful sort of melody. Damn it. Nick’s poetic bullshit was rubbing off on me.

I sighed and held the door open. Darcy entered, hips swaying side to side. After she poised herself in the center of my house I shut out the cold and leaned against the door.

Like I said, I’d lived there for about a year, meaning it was well lived-in at that point. Darcy couldn’t see the nerdy crap I kept upstairs like my bobbleheads or Grognak comics. Instead, she saw the open kitchen off to the right and the sitting area to the left consisting of a couch, a dining table and chairs, and some salvaged art. Pretty basic setup, but the strings of lights, strategically-placed jars of glowing radiation, and the budded flower vases did make for a cozy atmosphere. Add a pack of cigarettes here and a stack of Live & Love magazines there, and it truly felt like home. Life in Diamond City was better than it ever was with Nora, and some nights, I resented myself for feeling that way.

“I need to talk to you,” said Darcy.

“’Course you do.” I folded my arms indignantly over my chest. Darcy was selfish, only going out of her way to talk to people when she wanted something. Myself included.

She ignored my snide comment and said nothing, back turned as she surveyed my house. I waited. Well? Was she just going to stand there in that long, brown overcoat all night? Just as I was about to speak up, she turned to face me. She unbuttoned the first of three, large buttons on her big, rainproof coat. I wanted to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, but morbid curiosity got the better of me. I watched. Soon, the second button popped open, and then the third. She opened her coat. 

My eyebrows shot up onto my forehead. “Oh, you’ve gotta be shitting me.”

It wasn’t that Darcy was looked like Marilyn Monroe in that skimpy, white dress. It wasn’t that her pretty, blonde hair was done up like it used to be, or that she actually tried to halfass her makeup. It wasn’t her snappy heels, or that lipstick she wore that was probably named “coral sunset” or some trash. It was the big, round bump that filled out her dress.

I laughed out loud. Her expression didn’t change; she was desensitized to everything nowadays, especially me. I had never really cared for Darcy, but cared even less about her after Paul died. Harsh, I know, but true nevertheless. I wiped away a tear or two while she gazed at me with an expression as bleak and static as the Glowing Sea.

“So,” I asked, “Paul or Henry?”

Silence.

“You don’t even know, do you?”

This time, she scoffed. Scoffed, and made her way over to the couch. She took one look at the horrendous mess of concrete, traffic cones and God knows what else I had failed to haul out of my workshop and shook her head. “Men,” she sighed, taking a seat on the arm of the couch.

Eh, she wasn’t wrong. The mess in that room was so terrifying that I actually took the liberty of hanging a curtain rod across the doorway. I drew the patchwork curtain shut, obscuring the view. There. That was better. Afterward, I paced around the room, trying to focus on anything other than Darcy’s belly. But despite the leggy brunette on the cover of that stack of magazines or the red and blue swirls of that impressionist piece on my wall, my whiskey eyes returned to their mark. I finally gave up, leaning against the kitchen island and staring.

“So, Miss Pembroke, what is it you think I can offer?”

She gave another sigh, this one weary. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I came over here. It’s just, I have nothing left anymore.”

“Right. Not like you have anything important to live for, like a kid named Pete or something.”

“Oh you know what I mean!”

“God, you are so full of yourself,” I jeered, wondering what Valentine would have said instead. The man was basically my shoulder-angel. Sure, Darcy was full of herself, but so was I. The day I left that vault I became jaded. Sarcastic. Broken, like Diamond City itself. Nick probably would have appealed to her senses, as though she had any.

She sighed, _again,_ and started to slip her coat off.

“Making yourself at home, I see.”

She ignored me. At least the broad was consistent. She got one arm free, but the other one caught on something. “Oh, come on!” she hissed, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. I rolled my eyes. This was stupid. Still, I made my way over to the couch and helped her out of her coat, brushing back the stray piece of hair that had caught on her buttoned sleeve. The coat slipped onto the cushions and she exhaled. “Thanks.”

“Mm hmm.” I took a seat, staring up at the woman still situated on the arm.

A curious creature, that Darcy. My inner-Valentine hoped she was doing better. I mean, it’s not like I _wanted_ her to be a human trainwreck or anything. It was good to see her made up, but there was still something so sad about her. She used to wear bright colors like violet on her eyes. Now, they were smoky and black, reminiscent of the Third Rail in Goodneighbor; hazy, bleary, dark, like jazz in a crowded, lonely place. That’s how she was now: crowded and lonely. Too much going on, yet never enough to sustain her. Sad, desperate, insatiable Darcy Pembroke.

“You look nice,” I said.

Her lips parted. Suddenly, there was something else in her hazel eyes. Something positive. I had given her attention, so that stood to reason. “How kind of you to notice!” Her response was so automated I could have mistaken her for a miss nanny, only with less personality.

I’m not sure exactly what inspired me to look her over the way I did. Maybe I was lonely too, or maybe it was refreshing to have something besides pre-war paintings to look at. I was dressed like a slob, but not Darcy, whose dress was remarkably white in contrast with my dingy, gray shirt. She probably hated the way she looked, thought she was fat or something. But I liked it.

To put it bluntly, her breasts had grown. Part of that, I’m sure, had to do with the fact that she wasn’t wearing a blouse like she used to. Her chest fought to free itself from that strappy, little dress, the same dress that squeezed tightly around her middle. She didn’t have much in the way of curves before, but now that she was several months pregnant, she had hips, an ass, a belly, and thick thighs peeking out of her short skirt. But that wasn’t all I saw up there.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, referring to her obvious lack of underwear. 

“Eh, it’s laundry day,” she answered, and spread open her thighs with an impish grin.

I grinned too. “The hell are you doing, Darcy?”

“Making myself comfortable. You did invite me in, didn’t you?”

“I held the door open and a bloodbug happened to fly inside.”

Darcy laughed. _Really_ laughed. It was actually kind of beautiful. How long had it been since she laughed like that? Did she ever laugh like that around Paul? Around Cooke? Around her kid? Sad that Darcy’s happiness was born of being insulted, that the only way she could feel emotion anymore was to put up with pieces of shit like me. But as I watched her ease her hips forward onto the arm of the couch and draw up her skirt, I realized we were both broken. She never deserved Paul, just as I never deserved Nora. But me and Darcy? We sure deserved each other.

I leaned back with my back against the opposite arm, folding my hands over my torso. Meanwhile, Darcy hoisted up her dress until it was bunched up at the bottom of her pregnant belly, revealing everything below it. Front. Back. Everything.

“Jesus…” I sighed.

“It’s these hormones,” she explained, swaying gently against the arm. “I just can’t seem to help myself these days…”

“Could you ever?” I replied, and she gave a sultry laugh.  
I eyed her tits, gripping against the white fabric. Did they hurt? That dress looked so confining. I don’t even know how she fit into it, to be honest. I kind of wondered if it was a wedding dress or something. I could definitely see Darcy getting married in some stringy, little thing like that and wearing it out to my place just to get her rocks off. Depravity was kind of her shtick. 

One of her delicate hands came to rest against her belly. Why was that so hot to me? I wasn’t sure, but it really, really was. My cock sprang to life inside my pants. I got even harder when Darcy placed her other hand against her chest, squeezing those poor breasts even further. She heaved her chest out, rocking her hips against my couch, and released a dirty, little moan that was obviously meant for show. It was the kind of noise women were paid to make in those x-rated holotapes, the ones I listened to when I couldn’t sleep. Fake as hell. And yet, there I was, playing Darcy’s little game.

She continued to grind against the arm of the couch, making provocative noises that had no right to turn me on the way they did. Her hands explored her body; her hips, her breasts, her thighs, and her belly. She ran a hand up through her hair and knocked it down from its up-do. How she did it, I have no idea. It was one, swift motion that she couldn’t have possibly known how to do without practice. Platinum rays of sun toppled around her shoulders. From there, her hand traced down her own jaw before she plunged two fingers into her mouth and moaned.

Good _god._

She sucked on her fingers, gripping the couch with her off-hand for balance as she fucked my poor, innocent couch. Every time her hips jerked, she made a soft noise around her fingers. 

Before I knew it, I was slipping my hand into my pants, gripping my cock and working myself to full erection. It didn’t take a lot of effort; I was basically there already. How could I not be? This crazy dame was riding my lounge furniture like it was going out of style. 

Whenever she moved her hips, I stroked myself. Soon, we were masturbating in perfect synchronicity. I licked my lips and took it all in. The depravity. The wanton desperation. The sound of rain beating against the tin roof. The buzzing of lights strung up on the walls. The couch creaking under Darcy’s pregnant weight. The noise of my fist fluttering against my cotton pants. 

Darcy stopped. She pulled her fingers out of her mouth with a loud pop and spread her legs further. I paused, fist dormant against my cock as I watched her slip them inside of herself, slowly in and out, before dragging them all the way up her pussy so she could show me just how worked up she was. And boy, was she. 

“Something tells me this act of yours was premeditated, Miss Pembroke,” I quipped.

“Mmm…” she mused, and offered a sensuous laugh. “You really are a detective.”

Just then, she shifted her weight in precisely the wrong way. She gasped and wobbled. I pulled my hand out of my pants so fast I thought I might have ripped my dick off, scrambling to my knees and catching her. She was heavier than she looked. I grunted, managing to ease her down onto the couch.

“Whoops,” she gasped, cheeks flushed pink.

“I got you,” I said in the kindest tone I had ever offered her, and helped situate her on the cushions. This gesture ended with one of my hands stuck to her waist, the other against her middle. Wow. She felt…amazing. 

Darcy leaned back against the couch. “Sorry,” she breathed, “that startled me a little…”

“It’s alright.” My hands began to snake their way up her sides, feeling around her middle before my thumbs grazed the sides of her breasts. “You just work on catching your breath.”

“Something tells me you’re not going to make that easy.”

“And something tells me you’re _very_ easy.”

I traced my thumbs up her breasts, allowing them to linger. Darcy bit her lip; another cookie-cutter response. And it was still working for me. I gave them a firm squeeze and, this time, she moaned. This one wasn’t fake like the others. It was this desperate, pleading sort of moan that made my cock stir against my pants. Fuck. Those pants were getting too tight. But those I could deal with later. First, I needed to get Miss Pembroke out of that tight dress.

Since her dress was already hoisted above her ass, I figured I could yank it off with ease. No such luck. I tugged the bottom and it caught on her belly. “Oh,” she sighed, “here, let me help.” She was embarrassed. Something about that turned me on. Darcy: humiliated. Taken down a notch. Face flushing. Red, little sunbursts on her made-up cheeks. My mind wandered. What else could I do to make that pretty face of hers flush?

We worked together to free her. She was getting pretty big, and that dress was far too small on her, but it finally popped off and was tossed aside. She sat there on my couch, naked, ass crushing her discarded coat.

The struggle left her winded and she panted, chest softly heaving. She was at that stage in her pregnancy where her breasts were noticeably swollen. I assume her nipples were once the same shade of coral as that lipstick of hers, but now they were darker, each of them hard from my touch. There were pretty stretchmarks around her middle, mostly the sides, and a small trail of blonde hair started at her navel and descended toward her crotch. Beautiful.

I knelt down on the floor and spread open her smooth legs, exploring her body with my dark eyes. She bit her lip and sighed.

Darcy was wildly attractive. A little chubby down there, waxed with some neatly sculpted hair left over that was a bit darker than the blonde on her head. I wondered how much she paid (and who she paid) for such a clean wax and trim. She must have just had it done, too. And if that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have seen the light, pink hue of her pussy blossoming in want, or that slick drop of lust dripping between her thighs and onto my couch. I needed to taste her.

I eased my head in between her legs. “Please…” she mewled.

I stopped instead. Did Darcy Pembroke just say please? Was that word even in her vocabulary? Damn. I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. “Please what?”

This was Darcy we were talking about. Darcy didn’t beg, or ask, or plead; Darcy took. But that night was the exception. She looked down at me with stars in her hazel eyes and said, “Lick my wet, little pussy.”

That was good enough for me. The tip of my tongue met her clit, circling it at an arduous pace until Darcy was left whimpering. I continued for a time, teasing and torturing her, completely milking the moment. “Yes,” she sighed. Her fingers tangled in my brown hair, nails caressing my scalp. Damn that felt good. I think I was starting to see what Paul ever saw in that harpy. “More,” she demanded.

Before I could oblige, she rocked her hips forward, forcing my mouth against her heat. I let out a muffled grunt – albeit a positive one – and clasped my lips over her entirety. She reeled my head in close, her bump pushing against my forehead. I could feel her sink deeper into the cushions, the sounds of her rainproof jacket rustling under her weight.

“Mmm…” she whimpered, and started to fuck my mouth. How could I let Darcy down? She was so desperate. I mean, the lady came all the way over here in the rain just to get her rocks off. I couldn’t just kick her to the curb. No. I was a gentleman. I plunged my hot tongue inside of her. “Ohhh!” she wailed. I was sure someone out there by the noodle shop or Crazy Myrna’s could hear her moan even over the rain. And that really got me off.

I tasted her walls as she rocked against my mouth. She took her hands away from my scalp only to clutch at the couch, acrylic nails clawing against the cheap fabric in harmony with her moans.

_This is Travis Looonely Miles,_ said the voice of the radio host in my head. _Looks like we’ve got a scandal right here in our own backyard. You remember Darcy Pembroke: the wife of the late Paul Pembroke? Well, looks like our resident sex doll has opened herself up to none other than the vault dweller! That’s right, folks. The vault dweller!_

“Shut up Travis,” I mumbled into her before fastening my lips around her folds and sucking.

She didn’t hear me. She just bucked and cried, “Yes! Daddy!” Daddy? Was she serious? But what was crazier: Darcy calling me “daddy,” or the erection it gave me?

I gave her one, final lick, eliciting a quiet moan from her, then spread open her pussy with my middle and index fingers. She gasped in anticipation. Her swollen lips, once light pink, were now redder, warmer. She gave an involuntarily, little pulse as I held her open. Damn if that wasn’t hot. 

I pushed my opposite two fingers inside of her very, very slowly. Her hands gripped at the couch again, back arching. “Mmm, yesss…” I kept her wide open, pushing my fingers in all the way to the knuckle. “Yes, deeper!” she pleaded. 

“You can’t even contain yourself, can you, Darce?”

She licked her pretty, painted lips and shook her head no. Fuck, I was getting hot.

I curled my fingers and she arched her back again, this time emitting a moan so loud and sudden that it startled me. Still, I kept it together, feeling around inside of her to warrant a similar response. I got several. She moaned and moaned. Shifting. Bucking. When my thumb came to rest on her clit, she whimpered and said, “My pussy feels so good, baby…”

Baby? Now I was baby? Eh, sure. Daddy, baby, whatever, as long as I got to screw her.

“Ahhh, I’m close…please fuck me.”

“Since when does Darcy Pembroke ask nicely?” I wiggled my fingers in and out, increasing my speed. I needed to see that rise.

“Please!” she repeated. “Please, please, please just fuck me! I need it!”

I almost came right then and there. Almost. I had never come that close before without touching myself or, at the very least, listening to a holotape and rubbing on something. I took a deep breath.

“Turn around.”

Darcy proceeded as instructed, albeit clumsily. Her pregnancy made it hard for her to balance so I helped her up off the couch. After she was on her feet, I took a moment to grab one of her big, heavy breasts and taste it. She tried to grind against me but her bump was too big. I reached out and touched it instead, grateful to have the chance to explore this unexpected kink of mine. 

She let me glide my palm over her belly. The firm swell of her middle against my hand tugged at my balls. I was so turned on that I was starting to ache. I clasped her nipple in my mouth, sucking and flicking my tongue against its pertness. 

Darcy was many things; she was selfish, conceited, and air-headed, but she was not stupid. She knew I was fetishizing her. And for some reason, she was allowing it. Encouraging it, even. I could tell by the way she cusped either side of her stomach and rocked her hips. She wasn’t even rocking them against anything, she was just putting on a show for me. It was working, too. I rubbed my hands against her bump and actually groaned it felt so good. Pregnant women? Seriously? Who was really the depraved one, here? Not Darcy.

“Turn around,” I repeated, and she did. I bent her over, Darcy’s hands stabilizing herself against the back of the couch. She did a little waddle, spreading her legs apart and sticking her rippling ass into the air. She arched her back, and that rosy pussy of hers appeared between her legs like a moon appearing between a pair of mountains on a starry night. “Christ,” I whispered, and tugged myself out of my pants.

I lined myself up with her, gingerly pressing my head against her entrance. “Yes…” she sighed.

“You’re sick, you know,” I told her, easing my way inside of her. She shuddered and moaned. “Cheating on your husband, sleeping around with the detective you hired…”

Darcy nodded. “Yes, I’m so sick, detective…”

She was so goddamn tight, sheathing my cock with her heat. It felt so good that I stopped to collect myself. I wasn’t ready yet. Not by a longshot. I took this opportunity to make Darcy feel like shit.

“Look at you.” I brushed her blonde locks gently behind her ear. “You spent all this time dolling yourself up for me, didn’t you?”

“Uh huh,” she answered, breath hitching in anticipation.

I snatched her hair and slammed her face against the back of the couch, not overly hard, but hard enough to get my point across. “By the time I’m finished with you, you’re gonna look like a Goodneighbor whore.”

I started to rock my hips. Darcy gave a muffled moan. I held her head down, hair bunched up in my fingers, while my other hand reached around to scoop up one of her swollen breasts. “I bet these get so achy.” I released her head so she could talk, continuing to squeeze and fuck her.

She swallowed air back into her lungs and said, “Mhmm…they’re so big and sore…I feel like I’m going to burst.” 

I resented Darcy so much. Resented her because that stupid, selfish woman showed up at my door with the audacity to “need” me after offering absolutely nothing to me in the past aside from self-centeredness. And it was making me hotter than anyone ever had before. Anyone. Including Nora. And there I was, chump that I was, buying into her bullshit because I was horny.

My hips slammed against her ass. It quavered and shook. She squeezed around me as I moved my hard, desperate self inside of her, now fondling both of her breasts. I pinched her nipples and was surprised when something wet trickled down my fingers. Wow…maybe she was farther along than I thought. I squeezed harder, milking Darcy’s perfect, pregnant tits. 

“You really filled out that dress you know,” I said, voice choppy from the movement of my hips.

“Mmm…I knew you’d have to fuck me if you saw me wearing it.” 

She was right. I had to fuck her. As soon as she hiked that dress of hers up and started violating my furniture, I was lost beyond all hope. Hard. Wanting. Hopeless. 

I pulled out. Now, it was my turn to sit on the couch, her turn to get onto her knees. And I wanted to watch her heavily-pregnant self struggle to get down there. Jesus. I was sick, too. I didn’t say anything to her, just plopped down, gave myself a couple strokes, and nodded toward my dick. 

Darcy clumsily squatted onto the floor. Yes. _Perfect._ Despite her crappy attitude, she was once a woman of grace and dignity. There was no dignity in watching a six, seven – eight? – month pregnant woman struggle to blow me, but damn if it wasn’t satisfying seeing her taken down a notch. This weird fetish of mine was going to come back to bite me. I just knew it. In the meantime, I pumped myself against my fist. I was soaking wet thanks to you-know-who, and it served as a particularly enticing lubricant. 

Darcy didn’t care that she could taste herself on me. She spread my legs open and went straight to work, corking her head around and taking me to the back of her tongue. I exhaled and watched her blonde head bob up and down. God, she was hot. Plus, with me in her mouth, she couldn’t complain about Paul. I liked this idea so much that I held the back of her head and shoved my cock into her throat. 

I thought she would want to stop; I thought it might make her too nauseous or something. I wouldn’t have pushed the issue were that the case, but surprisingly, Darcy was into it.

I thought I was going to lose it when I reached the back of her throat. Her lips actually touched my balls. I wasn’t massive or anything, but I certainly wasn’t lacking. And despite how big she talked, her mouth was actually pretty small.

She pulled back and licked my underside. I bucked and groaned. I was slick. Slick from both ends of her. I breathed a long, wanting sigh as she gave me a few strokes, strokes that summoned a heavy bead of precum from my longing erection. It pooled briefly at my tip before dripping onto the couch. “Oh, fuck,” I moaned. Darcy laughed and licked her lips before taking me back into her mouth. 

Her head bobbed up and down, jaw twitching as I filled up her mouth. Then, I watched her throat bulge as she started swallowing me, clenching around my hard-on. I almost lost it again. I sat up straight with a quavering groan. Then, Darcy gagged. I held my breath, ready to pull out and give her some space, but she just kept on truckin. 

She took me all the way to my base again, making me twitch in her throat. She gagged again, but this time, also made a soft, retching noise. Her head continued to bob. I couldn’t believe she was forcing herself to endure that particular brand of misery. I wouldn’t have, assuming I was into men – which I wasn’t – but Darcy was _into_ it.

Truth be told, it felt so good when she gagged. Her throat seized up and clenched around my entire cock. It felt fucking amazing. I felt a little bad that she was suffering for it, but there was something intensely attractive about it. I never would have done that with Nora. Not ever. Nora was better than that. But Darcy? 

She continued to gag, the sounds of slurping and muffled grunts playing like an old record. Her throat gripped my cock and she gagged for the tenth or twelfth time, with it coming a more urgent noise. I kept waiting for her to reel back, but she didn’t. She just let me hold her head there while she sucked me off, forcing my length down her throat as far as it would go until her body seized and a warm sensation spilled over my dick.

Darcy finally pulled back and let my length drop onto the couch. Her lips were puffy, lipstick smeared all over her face. Her mascara ran down her pale cheeks, eyes red and watery. A viscous strand of saliva stretched from her mouth to my erection which I realized she had defiled in the most heinous, possible way.

I was horrified. Not at what I was seeing; not that I had just let Darcy Pembroke into my house to spit up onto my dick; but because I actually _enjoyed_ it. 

“You’re disgusting,” I said, slapping her in the mouth and rubbing saliva across her lips. Not only did she kneel there and take it, she actually moaned.

After I was done, Darcy wiped her mouth and used my knees to hoist herself up. She placed her legs on either side of me, that tender, pink pussy of hers hovering just over my crotch. I twitched again. She lowered herself against me right when it happened, expertly lining herself up with my dick. Within seconds, that horrible, insatiable woman was taking every inch of me, rocking her pregnant belly back and forth, riding me like her life depended on it.

She was so much heavier than she looked, weight centered on my hips as she moved to and fro. I extended my thumb and began to rub circles over her clit, eliciting some very eloquent words from this paragon of high class and refinement; words that even Diamond City’s articulate Piper Wright would have found impressive.

“Yeah, fuck me! Oh, fuck! I’m so fucking wet!”

My other hand grazed her stomach. Darcy was always so small, so petite. Now she looked full to bursting in every way. Her belly, her tits, even her swollen pussy. There was something about the way she needed release, or relief, or maybe both, and I was so desperate to give it to her. 

“Ohhh, yes! Right there! Ahhh!”

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you Darcy?”

“No!”

“I bet you get so worked up…”

“Yes!”

My thumb pressed hard against her clit. I stroked her over and over, her weight slamming down against my cock. She was hot. Wet. Sucking me inside of her. Squeezing around me. Working me until a familiar coil started furling in the pit of my stomach. My thumb moved quicker.

“Ohhhhhh!” she moaned, and then did it again, and again, until her moans weaved into one another to create a beautiful melodic cry that fluctuated up and down as she rode me. It was the single, hottest noise I have ever heard: this horrible fucking woman driven to inescapable bliss.

Darcy moaning, riding my cock…it was more than I could handle. I realized that there was no stopping it once she slammed down on me again.

As if on cue, Darcy doubled over, her distended belly rubbing against my middle. “Ooooohhhh I’m gonna come!”

As though she had hit some voice-activated switched, I grunted, jaw clenching. A thick jet of cum rocketed out of my cock and into Darcy as she moaned and started to contract around me. I groaned and thrust my hips, stream after stream filling her until she emitted a weary mewl.

Once we had ridden out our respective orgasms, I helped her off of me. Cum trickled down her thighs. She stood in front of me for a time, legs shaking, fingers playing with the ejaculate that leaked out of her. Good lord that was sexy. I reached out and held her belly with one hand and pressed my index and middle fingers back against her messy clit.

“Mmm…” she murmured, hips stirring at my touch. 

I don’t know what inspired me to do it, maybe just the fact that she was still moaning and it was a sweet sound, but I started rubbing her in circles again. 

“Yes…rub my pussy…”

Who was I to deny this marvelous creature? I obliged, doing exactly as she asked. She spread her legs further apart and stood shaking as my fingers worked her overspent clit. Her hips jerked whenever the sensation was too much, and the occasional hiss or moan would leave her lips, along with a “yes…” or an “mmm…” 

Darcy started rocking her hips, getting hot all over again. She ran her hands up her belly and squeezed her tits. They started oozing. The harder she squeezed the more they dribbled down her chest and middle. 

I pressed my fingers flat against her clit and started vibrating them. “Ohhh…” she whimpered, hips desperately moving against the friction. Her whimpers became louder and louder until she said – actually said – “ohhhhhh I’m gonna come Henry!”

That fucking woman.

And me, stupid me, chose not to stop, instead rubbing her off until she gasped and visibly began to contract. Her pussy clapped open and shut, open and shut, spasms hard enough to push some of my cum back out. And to top it all off, a stream of piss exploded out of her like a party-popper, squirting all over my goddamn couch. After a long, hard moan, Darcy licked her lips and looked me in the eyes.

This was my reality: Darcy fucking Pembroke, standing in front of me, pregnant, covered in cum and runny makeup, and me, half-flaccid dick covered in her fluids. And that age-old question rang in my head, one that I was sure would haunt me for the rest of my life: what would Valentine say?


End file.
